Whether you came because
I summoned you, as if to
an audition, or you drifted in
on your own wind's singular
script will never be clear,
but there you were, your old
handsome self, '70s hair
back-swept, a little silvered,
and of course I hugged you,
though you couldn't lift your
arms much, buttoned into that
cindery, immigrant overcoat.
Your eyes were rimmed raw
from winter gusts, or the loop
of dreams—the skin so
thin there, where the soul peers
out, spilling its blue pools
before retreating again.
It was all backwards;
Mom had left you, as if
by divorce, moved on,
and your face was lit, flushed
with defeat. The arena, though,
was grand, an empty,
modern theatre, all too
silly now—just us, unfunny
father and daughter at center
stage. Desire couldn't have
moved your feet.
In the wings, was it Gratitude
issuing no lines or cues
for me at all? Just this
dream of our greeting,
so brief, in the borderlight
before daybreak.
—Yiddish for "Father's Day"
